


All Heat and No Light

by Amat



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Food, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 10:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7930597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amat/pseuds/Amat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angela's been alone in Overwatch's new Swiss headquarters for almost a week. She's desperate for company when a dropship arrives with the Americans: McCree, Morrison and Reyes.</p>
<p>A quick little oneshot exploring the relationship between Gabriel and Angela. Set before the fall of Overwatch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Heat and No Light

The whirring roar of the dropship engines was loud enough to be heard from her lab. Angela tsked quietly to herself as she finished pipetting the last cell culture. She’d have to ask for proper soundproofing. Once the new HQ was properly up and running, ships coming and going every hour of the day and night, the constant noise would quickly become irritating. Distracting.

For the moment, though, relief outweighed irritation. The base had been open a week, and she’d been the only one to arrive in that time. Admittedly, she had only had to travel from the other end of Zurich, while the other agents lived countries, or even continents away. She’d made good progress on her research over the last week.

But it was lonely. The long dark hallways amplified every sound she made. And those she didn’t. She was a scientist. She didn’t believe in ghosts.

But she’d seen… so much. And nightmares don’t listen to reason.

She quickly covered the cultures, slid them back into the incubator, updated her log. The next time point was just after midnight. She set a reminder on her watch, then slipped out of her labcoat and hurried out of the lab.

She didn’t know who was arriving, but she was glad they were here.

 

The sun was just setting as the dropship touched down. The black air intakes over the hover units, thrown into sudden relief, looked almost like the eye sockets of an animal skull. A badger, perhaps. Or a bear.

The doors opened and the first face to peer out was a familiar one.

“Angela! Darlin’!” Jesse McCree grinned at her. “You’re looking sharp as ever.” His right hand imitated a gun as he clicked his tongue, winking theatrically.

She laughed “And hello to you as well, Jesse. I hope you have not been smoking too much.”

“Like a chimney, doc,” Jack Morrison said as he hopped to the ground, coat tails flapping. “Angela. Good to see you.”

Jesse colored slightly. “Aw come on now, Morrison. There weren’t no call for tattling.”

Angela pursed her lips. “We will continue that discussion another time, Jesse. For now, I have prepared a little celebration. To welcome you all to Switzerland!”

“A party, huh?” They all turned to look at Gabriel Reyes, still standing just in shadow inside the drop ship. He stepped into the light. For just a moment in the warmth of the sunset his light brown eyes looked gold. “Count me in,” he continued. “I could use some help unwinding after that flight.” He flashed her a small smile. A smirk? Angela felt a familiar tightness between her shoulders. Was he teasing her? He was so hard to read. She forced herself to look away from his face.

“Well, perhaps not quite a party,” she corrected after the pause had stretched a second too long. “But I did get drinks. A local favorite. Come, I will show you the kitchen.”

“Hot damn!” Jesse rubbed his hands together, taking the stairs towards her two at a time. “Little miss straight-edge doctor bought booze? Might be hope for getting you to loosen up yet. What is it? Kirsch?”

She snorted, flicking him in the shoulder. “Not alcohol, McCree. Rivella. It is a type of soft drink. We had it often when I was a child.” And she’d sought it out as an adult. Medical school, the hospital, Overwatch—all three took everything she had, every bit of focus. And she didn’t begrudge it. She was doing good work, had the funding and leverage to really make a positive difference, even if there were… compromises that had to made. But the taste of Rivella would always draw her back inexorably to her childhood home, the memory of her parents. Picnics in the mountains. Playing with their elderly Labrador. A simpler, happier time.

“Good call,” Morrison said behind her. “I’m not sure McCree here’s even old enough to drink in Switzerland.”

Gabriel chuckled as Jesse spluttered. Mercy looked away to hide her smile as she opened the door to the kitchen. “Through here, gentlemen.” Jesse barged through first, Jack hot on his heels. She was still smiling as Gabriel passed through. He caught her eyes as he did and she felt a zip of something that might have been guilt.

She poured glasses for all four of them and passed them around.

“Prost!” she toasted, and briefly clinked glasses with each of the others, to Jesse’s bemusement.

“Kinda looks like piss,” Jesse said skeptically, holding it up to the light. He took a sip and brightened up. “Tastes better, though.”

“McCree,” Gabriel growled warningly.

Jack stifled a small burp. “Not bad, Angela. Think I still prefer coke, though.”

“I like it,” Gabriel said softly. He took another sip, considering. “Tastes like… You know, it almost reminds me of horchata.” Another sip. “No cinnamon, of course.”

“Horchata. That is a milk drink, yes?”

“Sometimes.” There was a smile in his voice, hinting at an argument he wasn’t going to get into.

“Then it is perhaps the whey you are tasting?”

Jack snorted his drink. He looked up, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm. “The what?”

“The whey. I will admit, many of the marketing health claims are overblown, but I still have a soft spot for it.” She took another sip, smiling into her own drink at Jesse and Jack’s faces.

McCree put his glass down. “Ange. Darlin’. I fly halfway round to world and the first thing you do after I get out of that bucket of bolts is give me milk that’s pretending to be soda.” He held up a finger. “I retract that. The first thing you do is nag me about my smoking.”

“Jesse, as your doctor, I strongly–”

“Nope, that’s enough for me. I’m going to hit the showers and the hay in that order.” He tipped his hat. “I will see all of you in the morning.” Jesse turned on his heel and strode out.

Jack looked after him ruefully, pushing his drink away. “Kid’s got a point, doc. One of us could have been lactose intolerant.”

She bristled. “Jack. I am intimately familiar with the medical records of all Overwatch personnel. I would hardly be that careless.”

“Well. Maybe not.” He stretched, yawning hugely. “I may turn in, too.”

Angela looked at him in surprise. “But so early! It is not even eight. That is, what,” she did some quick arithmetic, “noon at your time?”

Jack grinned ruefully, rubbing his hand over his scalp. “I know, I know. Hell of a flight though, nigh on ten hours. And you know I can never sleep on those things.”

She tried to bite back her disappointment. Sleep was important, she knew that better than anyone. And she would be fine staying up to make her time point by herself. She would be.

She nodded crisply. “But of course. You must rest. I shall see you in the morning.”

“Night, doc. Reyes.” He left, the sound of another yawn echoing down the hallway.

She looked over at Gabriel, who was lazily swirling his glass, watching the bubbles rise.

“Are you not going to bed as well?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I took two caf tabs before my last piloting shift.” He chuckled. “I couldn’t sleep now even if Ana got me with one of her darts.”

“Ah,” she said softly. 

His fingers slowly traced the rim of his glass and they stayed in silence for a long beat. The thick, taste sweet of Rivella lingered in her mouth. She could feel her heartbeat in her lips, the almost imperceptible flutter of her soft palate.

Gabriel shook his head and cleared his throat. “Hm. Could do with a snack though. You hungry? Gonna be up much longer?” He looked up at her, one eyebrow cocked.

She swallowed, nodding, inexplicably nervous. “Yes,” she said. “To both questions. I have not yet eaten, and I have an experiment that will need tending at midnight. It would be foolish to try and sleep before then.” And she wouldn’t be able to sleep, she didn’t say. She knew that from experience. “There are some rations…” She trailed off at the incredulous look he gave her.

“Rations? You’re in here with a full kitchen and you’re still eat that cardboard, _preciosa_?”

She felt her ears turning red. “Rations are both efficient and nutritionally balanced.”

“Nutritionally balanced?” He laughed. She was struck by how… unguarded it sounded. How guarded he usually was. No wonder he was hard to read. “There’s more to food than nutrition.” He took another sip of his drink, eyes crinkling at her over the rim. “Or do you expect me to believe you went out and got this because it was… nutritionally balanced?”

The red of her ears was intensifying. She could feel the warmth growing in her cheeks as well. “Well… not precisely. It is mainly sugar. I… I thought it would be nice to, to share with you. You all. To welcome you.”

“And it was nice,” he replied. “Thank you.” Gabriel smiled, not unkindly, and got to his feet. “Come on, there has to be some real food somewhere in this place.”

“I believe the kitchen has been stocked,” she admitted. “There was a food delivery yesterday.” She just didn’t seen the point in messing around with cooking.

“ _Excelente_.” He opened the refrigerator and began pulling things out. Onions, tomatoes, peppers, garlic, eggs. “So what have you been so wrapped up in that you haven’t had time to eat properly?”

“Oh, research.” She slid onto one of the stools around the kitchen island and cupped her chin in her hand. “I have been working on applying biotics to necrotic tissue. Results have been…” she trailed off. Frustrating. Useless. Biotics accelerated cells’ rate of healing. She’d been trying to push the technology even further, adding mechanisms for delivering oxygen and nutrients, making incisions and closing them with closely targeted nanosutures. Tiny incremental adjustments. And, true, she’d made some progress. She was repairing cells ever closer to the brink of death, even holding off apoptosis. But reviving dead tissue? Still no promising results. But she would not accept impossible as an answer. She never had.

“Not going well, eh?” She looked up, jolted out of her musings. He’d taken off his jacket. His back was to her as he chopped and the outer muscles of his shoulder complex were clearly visible under his this shirt. He rolled one shoulder and the motion rippled through his trapezius, infraspinatus, teres minor and major, latissimus dorsi. Clear as a textbook diagram. She realized she was staring and quickly looked down to the island, tracing a pattern onto the easily-sterilized metal.

“No,” she agreed at last. “It is… not going well.”

“You’ll get there, _chica_. I have faith in you.”

She scoffed, bitterness suddenly twisting in her chest. Why couldn’t she make anything work? “I am afraid, Gabriel, that just at the moment that makes one of us.”

“Hey now.” He turned, wiping his hands on a towel as he leaned back against the counter. His voice was soft, a far cry from the rough drill sergeant bark she’d heard him unleash on recruits dumb enough to make dangerous mistakes. “Angela.” He so rarely used her first name. She forced herself to meet his gaze. There was a banked intensity to him. None of Jesse’s sparkle or Jack’s practiced shine. He was all heat and no light. “I know some of us,” a note of bitterness, “don’t exactly lavish praise on you, but you are brilliant. The fact I’m here to say that is testament.” He tapped his chest, between ribs six and seven. “I may not have a medical degree, but even I know you’re not supposed to survive a sucking chest wound.”

She smiled, if a little lopsidedly. “It was hardly a groundbreaking procedure. Any competent surgeon could have done the same.”

“And how many of these competent surgeons are willing to operate in the middle of a Serbian firefight?”

She snorted, remembering how little success she’d had convincing any of her residents to attend her combat medicine training. “Very few.” With good reason. She remembered diving across an open sight line to reach him. The white-hot intensity of the cold. The blood welling under her fingers as she pressed down over the wound, the other hand fumbling for her Caduceus Staff. No hope for sterilization, breathing in dust sent up by bullets peppering the wall they were hiding behind. The wet rattle of his breathing. His eyes were already glassy. Shock.

“Hey.”

The smell of blood and sweat and the ozone spark of pulse munitions. So cold. If she’d been just a minute later. His heart rate was spiking dramatically. The risk of pulmonary edema mounting each second. He was going to drown, drown in his own blood. She couldn’t turn the staff on, why couldn’t she turn it on. Her hands. Her hands were too slick with blood. It was so cold. The blood, the blood was freezing solid and she couldn’t, she couldn’t, he was–

“Hey. Doctor. Dr. Ziegler. Angela.”

His hand gently touched hers. Warm. Alive. Real. She jerked. Looked up. He was leaning towards her, concern plain on his face. His brows pulled together like the wings of a diving hawk. She was safe. They both were. Here in the kitchen, the smell of onion sharp in the air.

“Breathe, _chica_. It’s not real. You’re not there.”

She was trembling. She didn’t tremble. Her hands were as steady, as accurate as a laser cutter. He pulled his hand away from hers. But the heat of it, the ghost of his touch, remained. Her heartbeat was loud in her ears, she felt rocked by it.

Gabriel took a slice of tomato from the cutting board and held it out to her. “Here,” he said, almost whispering, “eat this.”

For a surreal moment she thought she should take it from his fingers with her mouth. Feel the roughness of his fingertips across her lips.

She reached out and took the tomato slice with her fingers. Still shaking. Put it in her mouth. It tasted tart. Metallic. Almost sweet. She closed her eyes as she held it in her mouth, feeling each individual seed against her tongue, the tightness of the skin, the flesh almost too firm. Not quite ripe. It was real. It was here. She chewed slowly. Tears gathered under her closed lashes.

“That’s good. Keep breathing, doctor.” His voice was low. Quiet. Soothing. “Tell me everything you hear.”

She swallowed. Eyes still closed. Shivering like she had hypothermia. She almost had. It had been so cold.

“Come on, Angela. What do you hear?”

“I–” She stopped, swallowed again. “I hear… the ventilation system. Um. You. You are… opening the oven. A drawer. A-another drawer. A cupboard. Um. Plates being pushed around.” She finally opened her eyes. He was on his hands and knees rummaging in a cupboard next to the stove. “What are you looking for?”

“Saucepan. Frying pan.”

“Oh, I believe they are over here.” She slid off of her stool and opened the door to the cupboard with the pans.

“Ah. Thanks.” He looked over at her as he reached past to grab the pans he wanted. “How are you doing? Honestly.”

She took a deep breath. “I… better. A little shaky.” Not as bad as she had been, though. Not by a long shot. “I feel. I feel as if I been running.” As she said it she realized it was true. Elevated heart rate. Perspiration collecting on her palms, lower back, armpits, the little dip above her top lip. Muscular fatigue. Trembling. Slight lightheadedness. The very beginning of a tension headache. She looked up surprise. “In fact, I believe my symptoms are in keeping with receiving a dose of epinephrine.”

The pilot light clicked and there was a sudden whiff of gas as Gabriel lit a burner. “That’s adrenaline, right? Sounds about right.” He poured oil into the pan and looked over his shoulder at her. “I know I’m not your commanding officer,” there it was again, that flash of bitter hardness, like unexpected seeds in a grape. “But I would still strongly recommend a psych eval.”

“But–”

“You’re having trouble sleeping. Nightmares. Sometimes you’re angry for no reason at all. Some part of you is always, always aware of what’s behind you, around the next corner. You’re exhausted, beyond exhausted, but you can’t bring yourself to really relax. Even for a minute.”

“I…” He was right. She wrapped her arms around herself. “It will take time away from my research.”

“It’ll take more time away from your research if you keep going until you have a breakdown.” There it was. That roughness that came out when he thought someone was being stupid. He jabbed the spatula he was holding towards her. “I wouldn’t usually push this hard, Ziegler, but we can’t afford you doing that,” he gestured to where she’d been sitting, “in the middle of a battle. I’ve seen this a hundred, hell, a thousand times and it will not get better until you get help for it.”

She bit her lip, leaning back against the cupboard. Her tears were threatening to reappear.

He saw her distress and the anger went out of him like someone blowing out a candle. “Ah, _lo siento_ , Doctor. Sometimes I forget…” he trailed off, shaking his head. He gazed down at the heating pan, rubbing his lower back with the hand that wasn’t holding the spatula. “Please. Get yourself some help. For me.” He finally looked back towards her, brown eyes pleading.

She nodded weakly. Satisfied, he turned back to the stove, cracking eggs into the pan with one hand. “How many you want? One? Two?”

“Two. Please.” He nodded and continued cracking eggs. For a moment, the only sounds in the kitchen were the soft roar of the range and the sizzle of the eggs frying.

She moved back to the island. Hopped on to the stool, wrapped her ankles around its legs. Folded her hands into her elbows and tried to stop them shaking.

He went back to chopping, mincing garlic with speed and precision born of long practice. “Sometimes I forget you’re not a soldier,” he said finally, scraping the garlic into the saucepan. It sizzled briefly and smelled divine. Her mouth watered. How long had it been since lunch? “If I’m honest,” he continued, “sometimes I forget anyone’s not a solider. I don’t have that,” he spat the next words out like a rancid nut, “smooth style. I can’t just switch off who I am when the media comes calling.” There was a sneer to his words she didn’t like. He scraped the onions into the pan, and the rasp of his knife on the cutting board was harsh against her silence. He looked over at her and the intensity of his gaze was staggering. She could almost feel the heat of it. She swallowed. “You went to medical school, Doctor,” he said, voice sandpaper rough. “I went to war.”

He cleanly sliced off the top and bottom of the bell pepper and disemboweled it in three efficient movements. “A pity,” she said softly, watching as he neatly diced the bell pepper, each piece as even as the last. “I believe you would have made a very great surgeon.”

His hands stopped and her looked over at her, brows lifted in surprise.

“You have the hands for it,” she continued. “Very precise. Perhaps…” She felt a sudden heavy sadness for what might have been. “Perhaps in another life, you might have saved lives rather than ending them.”

“My work does save lives, Doctor.”

She shook her head, but said nothing. This was not a fight she wanted to have. Not again.

And so she sat in silence and watched him cook. They were not so close that it was an entirely comfortable silence. But perhaps they were not quite so far apart as they had been, either.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This was written for a Mercykill contest put on by [mercy-kill](http://mercy-kill.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr. (If you're curious, the winning entry was [this amazing comic](http://mercy-kill.tumblr.com/post/149569376242/poly-hebdo-how-can-i-get-so-many-feels-from) by [poly-hebdo](http://poly-hebdo.tumblr.com/). I post Overwatch stuff as [Overwatchwords](http://overwatchwords.tumblr.com/).)
> 
> Gabriel's improvising _huevos rancheros_ without tortillas or salsa.


End file.
